Mihir kicked a loose stone down the dirt road, sending up puffs of ochre dust. His phone screen remained stubbornly blank—no signal, no maps, just the mocking flash of the 'emergency calls only' icon.
"Still nothing," he muttered, shaking the device as if that might conjure reception.
Maira watched as his fingers twitched at his sides in an odd, deliberate pattern—thumb to ring finger, index to palm—repeating the motion like a silent mantra. A faint shimmer of gold flickered around his fingertips before sputtering out.
She frowned. "What are you doing?"
Mihir's hands stilled. "Praying."
The lie sat heavy between them. Maira had seen enough village exorcisms to recognize suppressed power when she saw it. The way his jaw tightened when the energy dissipated, the frustrated set of his shoulders—this wasn't devotion. This was someone testing shackles.
A hot wind stirred the dry grass, carrying the distant chime of temple bells. No village stood within miles to ring them.
The dying sunlight painted the dirt road in shades of burnt orange as Mihir glared at his phone."No fucking signal,"he muttered, shoving the useless device back into his pocket.
Maira checked her own phone, though she already knew the answer. "Nothing here either."
A muscle twitched in Mihir's jaw. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if itching for something—control, power, a way to fix this. But the air around them was still. No hum of unseen energy, no flicker of gold at his fingertips. Nothing.
Maira watched him carefully."You're worried about Sahir."
Mihir's gaze snapped to hers, sharp enough to cut. "None of your business."
The words were ice, but his eyes burned.
A gust of wind rustled through the dry grass, carrying with it the faint, dissonant chime of temple bells—too far away to be real.
Mihir turned his face toward Bandhap's shadowed horizon. "We walk."
Bandhap Village – Kakkar Residence – 6:12 PM**
The Kakkar household buzzed like a hornet's nest. Garlands of marigolds coiled around the entrance pillars, their saffron hue too bright against the fading dusk. Servants darted about with trays of sweets, their voices sharp with urgency. At the center of it all loomed a massive wedding stage, its crimson drapes already embroidered with Raj's family crest.
Sahir stood at the periphery, his sherwani suddenly a beacon of outsider status. *No way in like this.*
His gaze snagged on a nearby hanger where workers unloaded floral arrangements. Ducking behind a parked tempo, he snatched a stray kurta-pajama from a laundry line—coarse cotton, smelling of sweat and jasmine oil. He shrugged it on, rolling the sleeves to hide his watch. A stolen basket of rose petals completed the disguise.
Infiltration:
- Blended with decorators carrying gilt lanterns
- Kept his face downturned as servants shouted orders
- Spotted the wedding planner's clipboard:Teju-Raj – Mandap Finalization – 7 PM"
The back gate stood unguarded. Sahir slipped through—
"You! Flower boy!"
A meaty hand clamped his shoulder. The head gardener, reeking of country liquor, thrust a garland at him."Take this to the bride's room. Third floor."
Sahir's fingers curled around the jasmine strands. Teju's room.
Somewhere above, a peacock screamed.
**Bandhap Outer Road – 6:25 PM**
The fading light painted the dirt road in long shadows as Mihir and Maira trudged forward, the weight of the silent village pressing in around them. Then—a sound.
The rough scrape of boots against gravel. Hushed, hurried voices.
Mihir held up a hand, stopping Maira mid-step. They ducked behind a gnarled banyan tree, its roots twisting like skeletal fingers from the earth.
Ahead, three men heaved a wrapped bundle from the back of a battered jeep. The cloth slipped, revealing a limp hand, the fingers already gray.
**"Hurry up!"** one goon hissed, wiping sweat from his brow. **"Boss said dump him where the jackals will finish him."**
The others grunted, dragging the corpse toward a shallow ditch. The dead man's face lolled into view—mouth slack, eyes wide and clouded. A farmer, by the look of his calloused hands.
Maira's breath hitched. *Murder.*
Mihir's fingers twitched toward his pocket—instinct, not power. Useless now.
One of the goons straightened, sniffing the air. "You smell that?"
Mihir clamped a hand over Maira's wrist. *Don't move.*
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of crushed neem leaves—and something darker beneath.
The lead goon's eyes narrowed."Someone's here."
The lead goon squinted into the gathering dark. **"Probably just a jackal,"** he muttered, though his hand drifted to the knife at his belt.
Maira shifted her weight—then pain lanced through her foot as a **thorn** pierced her sandal. She bit back a gasp, but it was too late.
"Ah—!"
The sound, sharp and human, cut through the stillness.
All three goons snapped toward the banyan tree.
"The hell was that?"
Mihir's grip on Maira's wrist tightened to a vise. His other hand found a rusted farming sickle abandoned near the roots—flimsy, but better than nothing.
The goons fanned out, their boots crunching gravel.
"Come out, little rats,"one taunted, flicking open a switchblade. "We'll make it quick."
Maira's pulse hammered in her throat. No weapons. No powers. No escape.
Mihir stepped out from behind the banyan tree, hands raised in mock surrender. His voice dripped with lazy arrogance, as if bored by the threat of violence.
"Relax, gentlemen. We just stumbled onto your... disposal work."He gestured vaguely toward the corpse. "Not our business. We'll be on our way."
The lead goon spat on the ground, his knife glinting in the fading light."You saw too much. Can't let you leave."
Mihir scoffed. "You're threatening *me*? Superstar MK?"*He rolled his shoulders, flashing a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Try it. See what happens."
Maira grabbed his arm, her voice low and urgent.
"Six against two, blades in hand,
Brave words won't save us where we stand.
Pick your fights, live to fight more—
Or die here forgotten on this backroad floor."
Mihir's smirk faltered. The goons tightened their circle.
Mihir raised his hands in a lazy, practiced gesture—the kind of move that usually made people second-guess crossing him. His voice was smooth, almost amused.
"Let's not get dramatic. You've got your business, we've got ours. No need for bloodshed."He shot the lead goon a careless smirk. "We'll forget we ever saw you. Promise."
He reached for Maira's hand, fingers brushing hers in a silent signal—*move slow, stay ready.*
"Let's go, PA,"he said, loud enough for the goons to hear, as if this were just another inconvenience on his schedule.
They took one step.
"STOP!"
The lead goon's shout cracked through the air like a whip. His knife flashed as he stepped forward, his men fanning out behind him."You think we're fools? Nobody walks away from this."
Mihir sighed, as if disappointed. "Really? You'd rather stab two nobodies than finish dumping your corpse?"He tilted his head. "Priorities, my friend."
The goon's face twisted. "Enough talk—"
Mihir's patience snapped.
"Fine!"He rolled up his sleeves, his voice dripping with contempt. "You want to play? Let's play."
Maira grabbed his arm. "Are you insane? There's six of them!"
Mihir flashed a razor-edged grin. "And only one of me. Poor odds...for them."
The lead goon spat. "Big words for a rich boy."He jerked his chin at two men. "Break his legs."
The attackers rushed forward—
—and flew backward as Mihir moved like lightning.
A spinning kick sent the first thug crashing into a thorn bush. The second barely raised his fists before Mihir's palm struck his solar plexus, dropping him like a sack of grain.
The remaining goons hesitated.
Mihir cracked his knuckles."Who's next?"
Dust swirled around Mihir's boots as he cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders like a boxer entering the ring. The six goons tightened their circle, knives glinting in the fading light.
"You should've run when you had the chance,the leader sneered, flipping his blade.
Mihir smirked. "And miss this?"
The first two lunged.
Mihir's elbow snapped up—CRACK—shattering a nose. He pivoted, his foot hooking behind another's knee, sending the man face-first into the dirt. A third swung a rusty sickle; Mihir caught his wrist, twisted, and disarmed him with a move so smooth it looked choreographed.
Maira's jaw dropped.
**"What?"** Mihir flashed her a grin as he ducked a wild punch. **"Did you think I spent all those polo summers just posing for photos?"**
A goon charged from behind. Without looking, Mihir **back-kicked** him square in the gut.
**"That's four."** He wiped imaginary dust off his kurta. **"Boys, you're embarrassing yourselves."**
The remaining two hesitated. The leader's knife hand trembled.
One of the goons, red-faced and furious, charged at Mihir with a wild swing. Mihir caught his wrist mid-air with effortless ease, as if plucking an apple from a low branch.
"Tsk tsk,"Mihir chided, shaking his head. He delivered a series of playful slaps to the man's cheek—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to humiliate. "Is this the best you've got? I've seen grandmothers hit harder."
The goon sputtered, face burning with rage.
Behind Mihir, the leader **crept forward**, a jagged knife gripped tight in his palm. His lips curled into a sneer—just as **Maira's hand clamped around his wrist like a vice.**
**"You didn't spare a thought when you took an innocent life,"** Maira said, her voice eerily calm. **"Did you?"**
SLAP.
The first strike snapped his head to the side.
SLAP.
The second split his lip.
SLAP.
The third left his ears ringing.
Then, with a sharp twist, she **flung him** onto the dirt road. He landed hard, coughing up dust.
Mihir whistled, eyebrows raised. **"Wow."** He shot Maira an impressed grin. **"Remind me never to piss you off."**
The remaining goons **stared**, frozen between fight and flight.